


Unless the Truth Were Felt to Be Dangerous

by mithrel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blanket Permission, Community: samdeanexchange, Dirty Talk, M/M, Magic, Podfic Welcome, Rough Sex, Season/Series 05, Truth Serum, Wall Sex, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whammied by truth spell, Dean is forced to tell Sam about his decidedly unbrotherly feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unless the Truth Were Felt to Be Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bhsbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhsbaby/gifts).



> Betaed and squeed over by scoopchick. Thanks chica! The title is from a quote by Alfred Adler.

They’d taken a break from the Apocalypse to look into some hoodoo thing in Alabama. It was just the usual: love-potions, luck charms, telling the future, but things like that had a tendency to turn nasty, so when they heard about it on their way through town they’d decided to check it out.

They’d disagreed on how to handle it. Sam had said that there was no proof that there was anything evil going on, and they should just talk to the priestess, while Dean hadn’t wanted to tip their hand.

In the end, they’d compromised, going in to get their fortunes told, and to see what was what.

It couldn’t _get_ any more stereotypical, Dean thought. Dim, smoky room, with some sort of incense burning, beaded curtain door, bunches of herbs stuck everywhere, and a fucking honest-to-God stuffed alligator.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to Sam.

Sam, leaning back in the chair next to him, his legs splayed in a manner that Dean tried not to think about, only shrugged. “Three possibilities. Either it’s all a hoax, and we can leave, or it’s legit. If she’s not doing any harm we leave her alone. Otherwise…”

“It’s the ‘otherwise’ I’m worried about. Besides, reading entrails? That’s sick.”

“We’ve seen a lot worse,” Sam pointed out.

Just then a voice spoke from the alcove behind them. “Enter and receive the knowledge you seek.”

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam, but they got up and went inside.

The room was dark, the only light coming from candles and a fireplace in the far wall.

An old woman, her hair white and her brown hands wrinkled, was seated behind an ornately carved wooden table. She was wearing purple robes with a gold sash, and a turban and several necklaces. Dean snorted to himself as he and Sam sat down.

“What is it you wish to know?” she asked, her voice deeper than he’d have expected.

“If you’re not a fake, why don’t you already know?” Dean demanded.

Sam hushed him. “We don’t really want to know anything, specifically.”

The woman nodded, and took out a velvet bag. She shook it out on the table and what looked like chicken bones flew out. She collected the bones and handed them to Sam. “You first, young one.”

Sam scattered them across the table, and as they fell she looked over at him, her voice and eyes gone soft. “Oh, youngling. You’ve seen more horror in your short years than most people do in their entire lives.” She peered more closely at the pattern, occasionally picking a bone up to examine it. “You have been touched by evil, but there is no evil in you. There has been a great deal of tragedy in your life, and more to come. You have not known a home in many years, except the one you take with you. You have done something in the past, something terrible, that you would give anything to reverse, but this will not be done without a great deal of hardship.”

OK, so she wasn’t a fake, but what the fuck did she mean by “the home he took with him”? Dean wondered, watching Sam shift uneasily.

The woman continued, “You are at the center of a great struggle, although you did not begin it. I cannot see the outcome, only that it will change you forever.”

Sam cleared his throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

She focused on Dean next, and smiled. “You are a skeptic. Despite all you have seen.”

“Yeah, well, I believe in what’s in front of me. And I’ve encountered more black witches than white.”

She shook her head, a small smile on her face, and handed him the bones.

He sighed, and threw them with more force than necessary.

The woman winced, looking at the pattern. “There has been as much tragedy in your life as in your brother’s. You take on far too much, out of guilt and a sense of responsibility. You are afraid that you will have to choose your own destruction in order to stop the struggle you are involved in.” Her hands touched each of the bones in turn as she continued. “You have been torn apart and remade, but you fear you will never be the same.” She looked up at him suddenly. “You keep secrets, not only from those around you, but from yourself.”

“Yeah, alright, enough!” Dean cut her off. Damn psychics, they always saw too much.

She smiled at him. “Do you have the answers you sought, young warrior?”

“The only answer I’m seeking is whether or not you’re going to go medieval on this town!”

She chuckled. “Fear not. I wish only the prosperity of the townsfolk.”

“And how do we know that?” he demanded.

Instead of answering, she got up and went to a cupboard nearby and pulled out several bunches of herbs. She ground them up in a pestle and dropped them in a kettle hung over the fire.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.

“Your brother is suspicious, as he has every right to be. This potion will allow him to see the truth in my words.”

“No way, lady!” Dean snapped. “I know better than to just drink something someone gives me!”

She poured the contents of the kettle into two mugs, picked one up and drank it down to the dregs in one pull, then looked at Dean. “You must drink as well.”

Dean sat, glaring at her, until Sam said, “Go on, Dean. She drank it, it must be safe.”

Dean didn’t know about that, but he picked up the mug and drank. It was bitter, and faintly astringent. He spluttered slightly as he put the mug down.

“I promise you that I mean no harm of any kind to the townspeople, the village or anyone or anything else.”

Her words reverberated, striking a chord within him, and he nodded grudgingly, but still wasn’t sure. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

She smiled. “Simple. If I said, say, that I was actually twenty-three and my body had been changed by a spell gone wrong…”

As she spoke, Dean felt something like a metal file on his skin and gritted his teeth. “OK, fine, I believe you.”

“So, wait, Dean can tell when people are lying to him now?” Sam demanded, seeming uneasy with the thought.

She shook her head. “Only with those who have also taken the potion, and only until the effects wear off.”

“How long will that take?” Sam asked, and she smiled enigmatically.

“Long enough.”

“Well, we’ll get out of your way now,” Sam said. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“It was no bother, youngling. I haven’t run into any of your kind in years.”

Dean got up and headed for the door, when her voice stopped him. “Good luck.”

Sam smiled at her. “Thanks.”

Once outside, they got back in the Impala and headed for the motel.

“It’s too late to go anywhere today,” Dean said, squinting into the sun as he drove. “Let’s rest up and check out tomorrow.”

Sam grunted agreement.

***

Dean stared at the TV, not seeing it. The psychic had reminded him of everything he’d rather not think about. He’d managed to convince himself that the future he’d seen wouldn’t happen…or at least he’d thought he had. Now, though, he was remembering again. Sam, a puppet for Lucifer. Cas, drugged out and hopeless. Himself, cold and ruthless, not caring about anything or anyone.

“Dude, you OK?” Sam asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Dean started slightly, then said, “No. I’m afraid Lucifer will end up wearing your body, Cas will end up stoned all the time and I’ll turn into a cold-blooded killer.”

Sam gaped at him, but he wasn’t as surprised as Dean was. He’d never meant to tell Sam about that, and had been sure he was about to say, “I am more than OK, I am _awesome,_ ” until he actually opened his mouth.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam demanded.

“I don’t know!” he snapped. “It’s like, like you asked me a question and I just said the first thing that came to mind!”

Sam shook his head. “No. Not the first thing that came to mind. You told me the truth.”

Dean panicked. If he had to tell the truth all the time… His mind flashed to all the times he’d had to avert his eyes when Sam came out of the bathroom wearing only a towel; the dreams he had where Sam was plastered against him, hard and panting; the times when it got to be too much and he jerked off in the shower, afraid that Sam would come in afterward and somehow _know._

“I can’t be telling the truth all the time though, can I? I mean, I’d never shut up!”

Sam thought a moment. “Maybe it’s limited to direct questions. I mean, I asked if you were OK. Tell me something I don’t know about you, Dean.”

Dean gave him a slow smile, although he was sweating. “There’s lots you don’t know about me, Sammy.” He slumped in the chair with relief as he said what he’d meant to.

“OK, so it’s only questions. Do you have to tell me everything, though?”

Through some experimenting which nearly gave Dean heart palpitations they learned that the effect was limited to direct questions, but that Dean had to answer the question completely.

“I told you that priestess was trouble,” Dean fumed.

“You don’t know it was her, Dean,” Sam said.

“Oh, and I suppose it’s just a coincidence that she made me drink a potion to know if she was lying, and now I have to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God,” Dean scoffed.

“It’s still early. We can go back there, get her to reverse it,” Sam said, and Dean nodded.

They got in the Impala and Dean peeled out so fast the tires squealed, not even wincing at the damage.

"Dude, relax!" Sam told him, but Dean was so far from relaxed he wasn't even in the same time-zone. He tried to tell himself that he didn't need to worry; after all he only had to answer direct questions, and it wasn't likely that Sam would ask him whether he fantasized about him, but he knew how his luck ran. He would tell, and then Sam would hate him and leave again. Well, OK, he might not leave _now;_ they still had to stop the Apocalypse after all, but if by some miracle they both managed to survive it Sam would be off like a shot, back to Stanford or God only knew where and Dean would never see him again.

Besides Stanford, he'd had to deal with Sam leaving three times already, twice when he told him to go; he couldn't handle another.

They got to the building where the priestess had been, but it was locked and dark. Dean throttled down his panic. She'd probably just gone home.

"We'll have to try again tomorrow," Sam said.

Dean nodded reluctantly.

***

When they got back to the motel, Dean couldn't sleep, his mind racing. His feelings for Sam weren't the only secret he had, just the most damning. He'd already spilled about the future he'd been to, and Sam knew he was afraid that he would leave, but there were other things. The fact that he was seriously considering saying yes to Michael, if it stopped this insanity. Exactly what happened to him in Hell.

He stared at the ceiling, watching it grow clearer as the hours wore on. Finally Sam stirred and looked at him. "Didn't you sleep?"

"No," Dean said, before he could stop himself. "Dammit, Sam!"

"Sorry. Anyway, we'd better go."

Dean took the world's quickest shower and dressed, then sat waiting for Sam to come out of the shower. When he did, Dean kept his eyes on the wall, not wanting to give Sam a chance to ask questions. He yawned.

"Maybe I'd better drive," Sam suggested.

Dean was reluctant, but with the way he felt right now, he'd probably wrap them around a pole. He nodded, picked up the keys from the nightstand, and tossed them to him. "OK."

Sam got behind the wheel and they headed back to the psychic's. It was still locked, despite the fact that it was well into midmorning.

Sam stopped a man passing by on the street. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "Can you tell me when they open?"

The man gave him the hairy eyeball. "Whaddaya mean, when they open? That place's been vacant for years!"

"What?" Dean demanded. "But we were just in there yesterday, seeing the psychic!"

"Psychic!" the man snorted. "You wanna lay off the sauce, sonny! Ain't no psychic in this town!"

"What?" Dean repeated, but the man was already walking away.

They peered through the smeared and cracked window, but all they saw was dust, cobwebs and some broken furniture.

"So she didn't just leave," Sam said. "That guy didn't remember her, and it looks like nobody’s been here in a long time."

There was no listing in the local phone book, an internet search turned up squat, and none of the people they talked to had even heard of the priestess.

"Well, this is just great!" Dean complained. "She whammied me and then made it look like she was never here!"

"She did say it would wear off," Sam pointed out.

"But she didn't say how long it would take! And we don't know what was in that potion, so we can't reverse it!"

"Let's go back to the motel and think," Sam suggested.

Dean nodded reluctantly. "Alright."

Back at the motel they started researching hoodoo curses and truth spells. After an hour and a half, Sam straightened up, pushing a hand into the small of his back. "It's no good. There are too many kinds of truth spells. Some wear off on their own, some can be reversed, some you have to do something to lift them."

"Fuck."

"We can stick around," Sam said. "Maybe she'll come back."

Dean snorted at this display of foolish optimism. "Yeah, sure."

They stayed in the motel for three more days without Dean revealing anything too damning. The spell showed no sign of wearing off.

"Maybe there's something she wanted you to figure out," Sam said. "She did say you keep secrets even from yourself."

Dean shook his head. "Nuh-uh, Sammy. I know everything I need to." He knew he was a sick fucker who wanted to have sex with his brother. He couldn't think what else she would want him to figure out.

"Well, then maybe you need to tell me something."

"Oh, fuck no, Sam, we are _not_ doing this!" Dean said, getting up. "I'm going to get some lunch, I'll bring you back something."

In the car, he slumped in the driver's seat for a long moment. That had been too close. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to keep Sam from finding out.

***

The next day, Dean woke up to the sound of the bathroom door opening. He turned his head in that direction without thinking about it.

Sam was standing in the doorway, in only a towel, his damp hair curling at the ends, water droplets sliding down his chest. As Dean watched, one ran down his throat, along the indentation at the center of his chest, over his stomach, to pool in his navel. Dean jerked his eyes back up.

"You OK?" Sam asked.

 _No, no,_ no! "No. I want to slam you against the wall and fuck you."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then laughed weakly. "Very funny, dude."

But they both knew it was the truth. Sam kept staring at him, as Dean wished for the ground to open up and swallow him, a demon to appear in the motel room, anything to stop Sam from looking at him like that. Dean pulled on his jeans, grabbed his jacket and shoes, and ran out of the room. Sam let him go.

***

Sam sat on the bed, his thoughts racing and going nowhere. _I want to slam you against the wall and fuck you. I want to slam you against the wall and fuck you._

How long had this been going on? Since he’d started hunting with Dean again? Since before he went to Stanford? Longer? Dad had been gone most of the time when they were younger. Dean had been the one who had raised him; made sure he had enough to eat, taught him how to talk to girls. All that time, had he…

He shook his head. Dean hadn’t done anything before now, and he definitely wouldn’t have said anything if it weren’t for the truth spell, but still…

He debated going to find Dean, but decided against it. Dean’s coping strategy, maladaptive as it was, was to repress and deny. Sam could force him to talk about it by asking him questions, but he didn’t trust himself to be rational right now.

***

It was evening by the time Dean got back, slouching into the motel room, tossing his jacket onto the bed, and refusing to meet Sam’s eyes.

“Hey,” Sam said carefully.

Dean snorted. “Hey yourself.”

“Dean, we need to–”

“Not talking about this, Sammy,” Dean cut him off.

“But–” Sam protested.

“I said _no!_ ”

Sam sighed, carefully holding in his questions, like “How long have you wanted to do that?” and “Is there anything else you aren’t telling me?” and instead said, “That priestess said you were keeping secrets. Maybe now that you’ve…told me, the curse’ll be gone.”

“So ask me a question,” Dean said, visibly bracing himself.

Sam thought, trying to think of something innocuous. “Where’d you go?”

“I don’t even know. Just away. Think I ended up driving around the whole town three times.” Dean grimaced. “Damn.”

“Maybe it will wear off on its own,” Sam suggested, although he knew if it hadn’t worn off yet it wasn’t likely.

Dean grimaced again and shook his head. “Maybe.”

***

After that things were even more awkward between them than right after Sam had started the Apocalypse. They dressed in the bathroom and avoided any and all physical contact. Dean refused to talk to him unless Sam forced the issue, and even then he usually got up and left, coming home late, smelling like smoke, booze and sex.

Sam recognized the signs of Dean in a tailspin. He’d probably had enough trouble dealing with this when Sam didn’t know; now he was probably neck-deep in self-loathing.

He was shooting worried glances at Sam whenever he thought he wasn’t looking, and on the rare occasions Sam left instead of Dean, he was tense when he got back, relaxing as soon as he opened the door.

“I’m not gonna leave,” Sam said one day.

“What?” Dean snapped.

Sam sighed. “I’m not gonna leave. We still have to stop the Apocalypse.”

Dean nodded. “Right.” But he didn’t look reassured.

***

Sam didn’t want to take advantage of the fact that Dean had to answer his questions, but he’d said something at the beginning of this that had been eating at him. “What did you mean, you were afraid you would turn into a cold-blooded killer?”

Dean winced. “It was right before you came back again. Zach wanted me to say yes to Michael, so he sent me to the future, to show me that ‘my choices have consequences.’” He stopped, then continued. “The demons had released the Croatoan virus. Most of humanity was infected.”

Sam winced.

Dean continued, in a flat voice, like someone with PTSD. “Bobby was dead. I found a camp with people still fighting.” He took a shuddering breath. “Chuck was there, and Cas…but Cas was human. The angels had left, and when they did he lost his mojo. He spent most of his time drunk, high or stoned. You’d said yes to Lucifer.”

Sam winced again, “I would never–” but Dean ignored him.

“I was…no it wasn’t me. Someone who looked like me was leading the camp, but he was…broken. He shot a guy in the face because he’d been infected, he was willing to sacrifice all the people he was leading for a chance to kill Lucifer. He went after him with the Colt while I was there, and got killed.” Dean stopped, shaking.

“He should have known that the Colt didn’t work, though,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged.

“The priestess said you were afraid you’d have to destroy yourself. Did she mean Michael?”

Dean didn’t look at him as he answered. “I…the other Dean told me to say yes when I got back. I thought, as long as there was another way…but the Colt’s useless. Jo and Ellen are dead. You’re going to say yes to Lucifer. If there’s any way I can prevent that…”

Forgetting what had been going on the past week, responding only to the hopelessness in Dean’s voice, Sam crossed the room and gripped his arms. “That’s _not_ gonna happen, Dean! We’ll find a way to stop it!”

Dean stared at him, and Sam flushed, backing away.

***

The next day they left. The priestess was gone; there was no point staying there any longer. Dean drove with his eyes on the road, his posture rigid.

Sam stared out the window, thinking hard. Dean accused him of overthinking things, but he didn’t think that was possible in this case. How could Dean even think of him like that, they were _brothers!_ Dean was his brother, who gave him the last bowl of Lucky Charms, who tried to make sure he had a Christmas even if it backfired, who went to _Hell_ for him. Sam couldn’t hate him for this.

Neither of them had said anything since they got in the car a hundred miles ago. The radio wasn’t even on, and the silence was oppressive. Sam never thought he’d be wishing for Dean’s music, but at least it would keep the quiet from choking him.

Dean pulled off the interstate and into a gas station. While he filled up the Impala, Sam went into the convenience store and bought Cokes and Snickers.

When he got out, Dean was closing up the gas tank. Sam tossed him the candy bar over the roof of the Impala, and Dean caught it. “Thanks.”

Sam nodded, handing him the Coke.

When they got back in the car, Dean turned on the ignition and moved to drive off, but Sam, picturing another hundred miles of silence, stopped him. “Dude, can we at least turn on the radio or something?”

Dean raised an eyebrow, but turned on the radio and hunted through the dial until he found a local classic rock station. “I Want You to Want Me” blasted out of the speakers. Dean swore and mashed the off button. Sam sighed.

***

They stopped at the end of the day in Meridian, checked into a fleabag motel, ate at a mom-and-pop’s about two blocks away and then went to bed.

It took a long time for Sam to fall asleep, and when he did, he dreamed of Dean.

Dean, kissing him like he was pie or classic rock or oxygen, while Sam kissed him back just as desperately.

Dean, pressing him against the wall, his hands on his hips, grinding into him and sucking a hickey on his neck.

Dean, lying between his legs and opening him up while Sam moaned and begged him to “Fuck me Dean, please!”

He woke up sweaty, hard and confused as hell. What the fuck? He didn’t think of Dean like that, never had, never would. Dean was his brother, and his home, like the psychic said, but he didn’t want to...

He’d taken enough psych courses to know that dreams didn’t necessarily mean anything, that they were just the mind sorting through the day’s experiences. It was probably just a reaction to Dean’s revelation.

Sure, and Lucifer just needed a hug. He’d love to be able to dismiss the dream as nothing more than fallout from his fucked-up life, but he knew better.

He rolled over and looked at the clock. 5:45. Dean wouldn’t be up for another two hours at least. He lay there and tried to think about the situation logically. _Did_ he want Dean? He spent a long time going over all the time he and Dean had spent together (other than his time at Stanford and the four months Dean was in Hell, it was his entire life). He thought about everything he was willing to do for Dean, all the roles Dean had filled for him: brother, surrogate father, mentor, constant.

After an hour he’d come to the conclusion that he’d do anything for Dean, that he cared about him more than anyone else in the world, but he still didn’t have any indication of physical attraction. So where the hell had that dream come from?

He decided he was overthinking it, like he usually did, and that it probably didn’t mean anything after all.

When he had the same dream the next night, and the next, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

***

Dean came out of the shower a week and a half after that damn witch hexed him, and before he even realized what was happening, Sam slammed him against the wall and kissed him, shoving his tongue in Dean’s mouth.

 _What the_ fuck?! He shoved Sam off, the towel falling off his hips. “The hell, Sam?”

Sam invaded his space again, giving him those damned puppy-eyes, the ones Dean had never been able to resist. “Please, Dean, let me. I want to.”

“You don’t. You _can’t!_ ” He’d seen Sam’s reaction when he had confessed, knew damn well his brother would never even _consider…_ “ _Christo._ ”

“I’m not a demon, Dean. I’m not possessed, or influenced, or anything like that. I just want to do this.”

Dean shook his head, but when Sam kissed him again he didn’t push him away. Sam certainly kissed like he knew what he wanted, taking control and keeping it, sucking on Dean’s tongue, biting at his lip… He began to wonder what, after all, was so wrong about this. Sam wanted it, so why shouldn’t he take it?

Sam pulled away from him, and panted in Dean’s ear. “Wanna see you on your knees in front of me. Wanna tie you up and tease you until you can’t take it anymore and you beg me to let you come. Wanna fuck you right here, now.”

And Dean, God help him, gasped out, “Oh, fuck yes!” He was so going back to Hell for this, but Sam was grinding against him, his hands squeezing his ass, and it would have taken a stronger man than Dean Winchester to resist that.

Sam grinned ferally, and undid his jeans, shucking them off. He wasn’t wearing underwear, Dean noticed, and that argued for this being planned.

Sam crowded him against the wall again, stroking his fingers over the crease in Dean’s ass, and he jumped. Apparently when Sam said “right now” what he meant was “up against the wall.”

Dean could get on board with that, and as Sam’s finger pushed inside him, he realized it was slick. He looked at Sam, suddenly uncertain again, and Sam smiled and kissed him hard enough that his head spun.

Sam had two fingers in him now, and Dean pushed his hands up under Sam’s shirt and threw it on the floor, digging his hands into Sam’s hips, then running them up his sides.

Sam crooked his fingers and Dean cried out and buried his face in Sam’s neck.

“Good?” Sam murmured.

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy, so good, _fuck!_ ” as Sam’s fingers brushed over his prostate again.

And then Sam was hoisting him up off the floor, damn Sasquatch, and pushing into him.

It hurt, but in a good way, and Dean’s hands clawed at Sam’s shoulders while his legs locked around his hips.

Sam breathed out as he eased into him, and then just stood there, taking one shuddering breath after another.

Dean didn’t have any leverage, but he rocked against him as best he could. “Hey. You gonna move anytime soon?”

Sam opened his eyes then, and the look in them would have been frightening if Dean didn’t know him. Like he was holding himself back by the thinnest of threads and it was taking everything he had to do it.

Dean didn’t want him holding back, so he clenched around him and Sam’s eyes closed again and he moaned, pulling out of him and slamming back in.

He set up a punishing rhythm, pounding Dean against the wall with every thrust. Dean’s hold on his hips was sure to leave bruises, and his legs were getting sore, but he didn’t care. Sam was fucking him, actually fucking him, and it was a million times better than the few fantasies he’d allowed himself to have.

Sam’s thrusts were getting erratic now, and when he came he bit down on Dean’s shoulder and growled, “ _Mine!_ ” and Dean was suddenly coming between them, and coming and coming until it felt like he could never have another orgasm.

Sam set him down and eased out of him, but Dean still made a soft sound of discomfort. Sam winced. “I’m sorry.”

Dean laughed incredulously. “Only you would apologize after fucking me to within an inch of my life!”

“You didn’t mind?” And now whatever had taken hold of Sam was gone, and he was all bashful uncertain Sammy again.

“Mind? Hell no I didn’t mind, Sammy, but…where did that come from?”

Sam coughed. “After you told me you…you know…I started having dreams.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at that, and went to sit on the bed. Sam sat on the other one, hands crossed over his knees. “Like dream-dreams?”

Sam blushed. “Yeah.”

“So you decided to fuck me against the wall?” Dean asked, amused.

Sam’s blush deepened. “Well, you said you wanted to, and I figured you wouldn’t mind if I was the one to…” he trailed off into unintelligible muttering.

“I told you, I don’t mind. It just came outta left field, y’know?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Now that he’d finally had sex with Sam, Dean realized something. He’d wanted to have sex with him, sure, and wanted to do it again, but it was more than that. Until that moment all the protect-your-little-brother, don’t-show-your-emotions, don’t-give-them-any-weaknesses to exploit crap he’d been exposed to all his life had obscured it, but he loved Sam. More than that, he realized he might be _in_ love with Sam. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I think I just got what she meant by ‘keeping secrets from myself.’”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

When he didn’t say anything else, Sam asked, “Are you going to explain that comment?”

Dean hesitated. After all, he didn’t know if this was a one-time thing, or if Sam was going to freak out. He didn’t want to give him any more reason to. And he didn’t exactly go shouting his feelings to the sky anyway. “I…I love you.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh…OK.”

“I mean, like, I think I’m _in_ love with you. I just didn’t realize it until now.”

Sam thought a moment, then nodded. “I guess I can deal with that.”

Dean let out an inaudible sigh of relief. “And that,” he gestured to the wall, “was it a one-time thing? I mean you were talking like…”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“No. No I don’t,” Dean said forcefully.

Sam shrugged. “Then it won’t be.” After a pause, he said, “I guess the curse is lifted now.”

Dean pursed his lips. “Maybe. Ask me a question.”

“How old are you?”

Dean rolled his eyes. That was the best Sammy could come up with? “Sixteen. Hey, it worked! I can lie again!”

Sam grinned. “Good thing, too. We’d get in trouble if you had to tell the truth whenever someone asked you a question.”

Dean nodded. “Although, all things considered, I guess it wasn’t a bad thing I got cursed.”

Sam smiled at him. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t a bad thing at all.”


End file.
